makes me feel dizzy. Lifts are there to provide people with a service. You’d have to be stupid not to take advantage of them.
There’s a ping and a moment later the lift arrives and opens. I rebound off a wall of bodies.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘full.’
‘Not quite, Sabine! You can fit in. Breathe in, everyone.’ It’s Olaf from somewhere at the back.
On the second floor, I almost fall out when the doors open.
I wait until everyone is out to get back into the lift. Olaf hovers outside the lift.
‘From now on I’ll resort to the stairs,’ I hold the door open with my foot so I can talk to him. At the canteen, there is a long queue by the buffet. ‘It smells of pancakes.’ I enjoy the greasy, sweet waft.
‘Do you like them?’
‘They’re delicious. Especially with a slab of butter and a thick layer of icing sugar…’
His gaze glides over my body. ‘I can’t tell.’
‘Because I never eat them. I’ve banned them from my diet,’ I say.
Olaf shakes his head. ‘If there’s one thing I hate,’ he says, ‘it’s that women are always denying themselves things.’
‘What?’
‘I once had a girlfriend who was always dieting. She couldn’t talk about anything else. Montignac, juice diets, Slimfast, you name it. I became an expert in the field. Pounds flew off and kilos went back on. If I ever cooked anything, she would have just started a carrot diet. I got sick of it.’
I laugh despite the unexpected pang I felt when Olaf started talking about an ex.
‘You’re not on a diet are you?’ he asks.
‘What difference would it make? I’m not your girlfriend am I?’
‘That’s true.’ He looks at me with a mysterious smile. ‘What do you like, apart from pancakes?’
‘Greek food,’ I say, ‘I love Greek food.’
He nods. ‘Then we’ll go out and eat Greek sometime, okay?’
‘Okay.’
I’ve only just got home when the doorbell rings. Out of the window, I see Olaf. My heart turns somersaults as if it’s been let loose in my rib cage. I press the button in the hall and hear the downstairs door spring open. Olaf’s heavy footsteps come upstairs and a moment later he is inside, holding takeaway Greek in a big box.
‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he says. ‘You like Greek food don’t you?’
I look at him, slack-jawed. ‘I was just making toasted sandwiches.’
‘Toasted sandwiches!’ Olaf says contemptuously, and comes further into my flat.
He sets out the trays of rice, salad, pita bread and souvlaki on the table and a greasy smell pervades the room. In the kitchen the toasted sandwiches are burning. I rush in and unplug the toaster from the wall.
‘Whoever eats Greek for lunch?’ I say, laughing.
‘Greeks,’ Olaf says. ‘Go and sit down, it’s getting cold.’
We eat together, facing each other at the table, the plastic trays between us.
‘I was sure you liked doing things spontaneously,’ Olaf says with his mouth full. ‘Nice food, eh?’
‘It’s delicious. Where does it come from?’ I take a piece of bread and scoop some tzatziki from the tray onto the edge of my plate.
‘Iridion, on the corner. More wine?’ Olaf raises the bottle of white wine he has opened and I nod. He fills our glasses and serves himself some more pita bread.
I push my plate away from me and take in his huge appetite with awe.
‘God, you eat a lot.’
‘Always have done,’ Olaf beams. ‘My mother messed me up totally. She always made my favourite dishes and then gave me two or three helpings. She was crazy about cooking.’
‘Was? Has she died?’ I collected the empty trays and put them into the cardboard box.
‘No, but she doesn’t cook much anymore. I’m an only child and my father died five years ago; she doesn’t feel like going to all that effort just for herself. She cooks once a week, freezes everything in portions and eats it every day. When I go home for dinner, she cooks for me, makes too much and freezes that too.’ Olaf scrapes his plate clean, gnaws at a bone and chucks it into the cardboard box. He burps loudly and slaps his full stomach.
‘Do you have to burp like that?’ I can’t stop myself saying.
‘In many cultures, it’s polite behaviour. If you don’t burp, they keep on serving you because they’re afraid that you haven’t had enough.’
‘In which cultures is that?’
‘In Asian countries, I think.’ Olaf pushes back his chair, and clears the table, takes everything into the kitchen. Then he pulls me from my chair. Holding me tightly in his arms he kisses me. Bits of rice and souvlaki get into my mouth and I swallow them. Kissing is actually really dirty, I think as his tongue wraps around mine. You have to really like someone to go through this.
He pulls back a little. ‘I have to get back to The Bank, I’ll over-run my lunch break. Are you doing anything tonight?’
‘I wanted to re-watch old episodes of As the World Turns, and I’ve got my book The Assertive Woman to finish,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Shall we go out for dinner tonight?’
‘Great,’ I hear myself say. ‘But not too early.’
‘Okay, I’ll pick you up at eight. See you tonight.’ Olaf kisses me again and leaves. I look out of the window to see if he is looking up. We wave at each other and I turn away with a smile.
I’ve got a date. And I’ve still got the whole afternoon to play around with my hair and decide what to wear. I go to my wardrobe. In a dark, forgotten corner I find a single dress that approximates evening wear. It’s too long, too orange and too small.
I try it on against my better judgment. Orange is really out of fashion, although the bright colour does suit me. It would, if I could get the material over my hips. Did this ever fit me?
I pinch my side and give the bulging seams a disgusted look.
This is a harder blow than discovering that my desk had been nabbed. Much harder. Like watching a film on fast rewind, I see myself lying on the sofa with bags of liquorice and chocolate, chips and pistachios.
